A Day in the Life
by Exilo
Summary: Parallel stories, a human Survivor and an Infected Smoker, as they duel in a cat and mouse game. One shot, Smoker centric. R&R please.


_**A Day in the Life**_

The survivors didn't see the Smoker, as he stalked a few steps behind them, far enough they wouldn't hear his constant coughs. They shined their flashlights at the corners. They looked over their guns, and looked over each other's guns. And they bickered near endlessly. The Smoker wanted to kill them for that reason alone. There were four of them. The Smoker had enough intelligence to count. Four of them. Too many to attack when they were together, as they moved down the alleyways and avoided mobs of Infected. If the Smoker tried to attack, he'd most likely be killed. Though, if not for the woman, he might have risked attacking. He had managed to orchestrate panic and confusion enough to take out larger groups. But there was the woman. It was the woman that kept the Smoker hidden in the rooftops. It was the woman that made an all too human chill run down the Smoker's spine. She carried two pistols on her belt, a machete on her back, and an assault rifle in hand. Maybe she had been a soldier once, that would explain a lot, but now she was a survivor. A real survivor. She had killed more infected alone than the other three had combined. She was more than a survivor, she was a warrior.

The other three were nothing special. Typical, run of the mill survivors who thought they might live through this if they stuck together. These were the kind the Smoker had always killed. The kind that should be dead, would be dead, if not for that damn woman. Each of the other three had their weaknesses. One was a coward, and ran whenever a Tank approached. One was a heavy smoker and couldn't run for long. And one was a poor shot, even with his shotgun. He panicked and pumped the trigger and wasted shells on shadows and stray cats.

The woman's weakness was these men. She did not kill the dead weight, she carried it. And the Smoker would exploit it. Somehow.

"You really think the military…you think it even exists anymore?" Woody, the man who had been craving a cigarette since the four left the safe room, asked.

"I don't know," said Dirk, the coward. "Can we really trust random writing on the wall of a safe room? But it's better than nothing, right? It's something to hope for."

Mercedes, who walked at the head of the group, stopped suddenly. She looked over her shoulder, before lifting her assault rifle and shooting off a three round burst at what seemed to be a shadow. "Let's get moving," Mercedes said. "The creepers are watching. Reload. A horde might be coming."

After a few moments, the Smoker lifted his head again. He had let out a cough, assuming he was far enough to be heard, but that woman had ears like a jackal. Two of the bullets had skimmed inches over his head. The third found its way into his shoulder. It ached, but most of his body ached. Especially his jaw, his tongue, as the skin was in a constant flux of dying off and regrowing. He was used to pain. The Smoker climbed down from his perch and headed to follow his prey, since he had run out of rooftops.

The survivors had stopped when they came to an open area, instead of alleyways and streets. They had taken time to regroup and brace themselves for a horde. When the horde didn't come, they attempted to cross this open area, but again the woman lifted her hand to gesture for them to stop.

"Dirk," Mercedes said. "Axe."

Dirk walked forward and handed the woman his fire axe. A coward, he quickly scurried to the back of the group. Mercedes assumed a wide stance, and readied the axe. From out of the dark came a moan, and a moment later a Charger had come running. While the men cowered and screamed, Mercedes stayed with her feet planted. Twisting, shifting her weight and swinging the axe, the blade sliced deep into the Charger's skull. Mercedes sidestepped, to avoid being trampled by the Charger as it fell to the ground, twitching once before laying still, dead. Mercedes placed a boot on the Charger's chest and pulled the axe up, ripping the blade free with a splash of blood. "Thanks Dirk," she said. She looked around. "Dirk?"

With the woman distracted, the Smoker had sensed his chance. The tongue had lanced out and coiled around the man, squeezing the breath from him before he could scream. The other two men, fascinated by Mercedes' display, hadn't noticed as Dirk was dragged deeper and deeper into darkness. The man whimpered and sobbed as the Smoker lifted him up. The Smoker took his head in both hands and twisted, snapping the neck with no great difficulty and silencing the annoying babbles. The Smoker let the body fall, and with a flick of his head, snapped his tongue off. There was a snap of pain, but it was not much more intense than the pain he always felt. Already, his tongue was starting to stitch itself back together, growing out of his mouth.

He stayed a few dozen feet behind the survivors. The woman was in something of a rage. The Smoker actually suspected she had purposed kicked one of the blinking cars. When the siren attracted a horde of infected, she tore through them with her rifle first. And when the rifle ran out of ammunition, she took out her pistols. And when those were empty, she took the machete off her back and hacked the remaining Infected to pieces. The other two men did not help her. Andy did lift his shotgun, but Woody lowered the aim before a shot was off. Finally, when Mercedes was done, covered in gore and blood of the Infected, she gave a sigh. "The rifle is out of ammo. Anyone know where the nearest safe house is?"

Woody coughed into his hand as he looked around. "Haven't seen any markings lately. God willing it'll be in a convenience store so we can get some food. You sure we didn't make a wrong turn somewhere?" When Mercedes glared at him, he quickly said. "No, no. Of course not. I'm betting that we can just keep going. I hope ones nearby. I really need some more cigarettes. Not to mention, I'm freaking exhausted. If…if we have to run…you two go without me, alright? I'm just dead weight if I can't run."

"We're not leaving you," Mercedes said sternly. "We just keep quiet and keep low." She looked around. "The docks can't be much farther."

"It'll be morning soon," Andy said. "Jesus, have we been out for twelve hours already?"

"I think so." Mercedes looked around. "Come on, if we can't find a safe room, maybe we can make one. I don't know about you, but I'm pretty tired."

The Smoker growled in annoyance. He followed after the humans, waiting for the woman to be distracted again, but the chance never rose. The humans now moved into a warehouse near the poorer area of the city. The Smoker did not like enclosed spaces. While one of his larger brethren could pummel through a hallway, it was too likely he would catch a bullet to the head before he could do anything important. Patience was key, for now. He just had to be patient. The woman had screwed up once, and he had taken advantage of it once. He could do it again.

He stayed a few paces behind them, trying to muffle his coughs and only move forward when they had turned a corner. Mercedes and her sharp ears noticed and warned the others, but she seemed to understand the same thing the Smoker understood. Inside, there was little he could do. And so she passed him off as more a nuisance than a veritable threat at the moment. Still, perhaps she knew it was the same Smoker that had been stalking them for some time now. He followed them slowly, carefully, but couldn't stop coughing. Sometimes Mercedes actually turned and fired off her pistols at his direction, but he was never stupid enough to get caught in open air.

"We can make camp here," Mercedes said. It seemed to be some sort of office. No ammunition, no first aid, not even any paper clips or letter openers. This place had been picked clean. There weren't even bodies, but some residual stains of blood and a strong stench of bleach that made Mercedes feel light headed. At least no need to clean anything up. "Woody, stay away from the windows. Last thing we need is that Smoker to get smart." Mercedes had picked this room since there was only one door to cover and it was fairly large. But there were two windows and they were two flights up. "Andy, help me move the desk."

Mercedes took hold of the desk that must have been too heavy for any looters. Andy took the other side, and with heavy huffs, they pushed the desk against the door. Hopefully that would stop any of the common infected, and slow down some of the bigger ones at least for a minute. In an emergency, they could jump down to the street level. Well, Mercedes could at least. She doubted Woody or Andy would have the training to tuck and roll, but it would only be in an emergency.

"You two," she said. "Try to get some sleep." She took out her two pistols and pressed against the wall, out of range of the windows and facing the door. She sighed.

The Smoker guessed that they would be spending the coming day in that room. During daylight hours, Witches tended to wander. Survivors had adopted to stay indoors, despite the opportune time to travel. The Smoker, again, growled under his breath. He headed out of the warehouse for now. Those survivors would be coming out sooner or later. And he had been stalking them for what seemed like ages. He wanted to kill them. It was his right. That woman who had become such a danger to him and his. He wanted to see her lifeless corpses and the blood slowly dribble out of her mouth as the soul left the shell. He paused, coughed a few times, then turned and headed out. The survivors would stay in for the daylight hours. He had time to go…recruit.

Mercedes stayed awake for several hours, until noon the following day. After that, she woke Woody up, and settled down to get some sleep. Woody took up Andy's shotgun, looked it over, and settled it in hand. Leaning against the wall, hours started to tick by. Woody had taken to an odd habit since the start of the outbreak, and the resulting shortage of cigarettes. He had begun chewing on his fingers. It somehow helped to ebb the cravings for nicotine, but as he looked down at the ring finger on his left hand, it occurred to him he wouldn't have fingers for much longer.

At around two in the afternoon, judging by the digital watch he still wore for some reason, Woody heard the first signs of trouble. Rumbling out of the hallway came maniacal laughter. "Leaper," he muttered. Standing, he lifted the shotgun to the door, and walking to his side, gave Mercedes a soft nudge with his foot. "M…M, get up. I hear laughter and smell coffee. A Leaper is coming." He gave her a harder kick, but she rolled over, groaning. Clutching the shotgun tighter, Woody lifted it to his eye and shot at the door. He pumped the weapon, and shot again, pumped, and shot again. Calm settled over him for a moment, as he looked at the splintered wood of the door. He could no longer hear the laughing. Mercedes groaned and sat up, still so exhausted and barely awake. The noise took Woody's attention from the door, and as fate would have it was at that moment that the Jockey leapt through the frosted, shattered remnants of glass of the office door's window. Landing on the desk that had been pushed in front of the door, the Jockey took a moment to look around, before leaping at Woody.

Mercedes and Andy could only watch in horror as the Jockey yanked Woody towards the window. The window of course was not built to take any amount of force, and shattered as the top heavy duo slammed into it. The Jockey, laughing hysterically, fell to the ground. Woody just managed to reach out a hand. He caught hold of the edge of the window, cutting his hand but hanging on enough that the Jockey lost hold of him and went plummeting down to the ground, smashing its back against the ground but still filling the area with its hysterical laughter. Woody screamed in agony as both hands that held to the edge were cut by the fragments of glass. Andy came into the window and reached down, trying desperately to get a hold of the blood slicked forearm. It didn't help that Woody was screaming and fidgeting, and Andy shouted for Mercedes to come help, but the window was too narrow for two people.

This was the Smoker's chance. Standing far, on the ground floor, he suddenly spit his long tongue out, and lassoed Andy. Andy could barely scream before he had been pulled out of the window and down to the ground. Woody, with nothing to help him, fell as well, cracking against the ground. If the fall hadn't killed him, the Jockey began clawing its way towards him, cackling madly, and soon enough its fingers had dug into the tender skin of Woody's throat. Andy hit hard as well. He felt something crack in his legs, and his ribs tighten as he was dragged along. Looking behind him, he saw the Smoker pulling him closer.

Mercedes retrieved the shotgun, and with a heavy breath, leapt from the window. She landed hard on the ground, but she knew how to roll, and avoided injury enough to take the machete off her back and run faster than Andy was dragged. Swinging down with all her might, she cut cleanly through the tongue.

Squatting down beside Andy, she placed the shotgun, as well as her second pistol in his lap. "I'll be back," she promised. Andy reached out to stop her, but she was already chasing after the Smoker, who was now trying to retreat. The Smoker, hacking and coughing, struggled to outpace the blade wielding woman. He braced his legs, preparing to jump up into a window of a building. But just as he was leaping, two bullets found their way into his back. The Smoker fell to the ground, gasping and coughing and groaning. Another two bullets found their way into the Smoker's back, and he fidgeted dumbly, wheezing and gasping in pain.

Mercedes approached with no determined speed. She slowed down and walked, after confirming that the Smoker was not going to get up to flee. He did try crawling over the ground, but that was a feeble attempt at best.

"You fucking little monsters," Mercedes said. She holstered her pistol, not bothering to reload it, and instead took up her machete. "I hope your ears work, I want you to hear this. I'm going to torture the undead fuck out of you now."

The Smoker wiggled his jaw. A moment later the tongue had leapt out of his mouth, but Mercedes was faster. The machete cut through the air, and hacked clean through the appendage. With a step forward, she swung again, and the machete's edge cut through the Smoker's chest. Greenish-yellow blood spurted out the wound, before settling into a steady stream that wetted his shirt. Mercedes was calm and careful with her movements. She whipped the machete on her sleeve, and returned it to her back. She took out her pistol. She ejected the clip and reloaded, she pulled the slide back before pressing the muzzle to the Smoker's head. "Can you even talk?" she asked. "Can you say anything? Say something, and it'll buy you a few more seconds."

The Smoker coughed softly, staring up at her. "Go to hell," Mercedes said, before squeezing the trigger. The bullet passed through the Smoker's remaining eye and into his head. The body tensed briefly, then fell back and a cloud of green gas spurted out of the corpse. Mercedes fanned her hand, coughing loudly and trying to grope her way out of the noxious cloud, when she felt something powerful pounce upon her. Mercedes fought against the Hunter that tackled her as best she could. She clawed and bit as furious as the Hunter did, but the Hunter was blessed with strong claws and sharp teeth, and ripped into her with ease, while she had to struggle to do any damage to him. At last, the Hunter's jaws opened wide and closed upon Mercedes' neck. The teeth first crushed her windpipe, then by force and sharpness of the bite ripped into skin and vein. The Hunter yanked his head back, before clamping his teeth down on the throat again and crunching. His claws came into play, and ripped at her face, until by her scent, he could tell his prey was dead.

Standing, licking the blood from his mouth and claws, the Hunter headed off to kill the other Survivor with the broken legs.


End file.
